


Push and Pull

by Shrift (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 08:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16740664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Shrift
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Shrift.





	Push and Pull

**Author's Note:**

> There are slight spoilers for "War", "Hard Landing", and "Psychic Pilgrim".

Nikita checked down the hallway as Michael raised one leather-gloved hand to knock on the hotel door. Three precise pounds. Nikita remained alert, waiting for Birkoff's reply through the feed in her com-link: wishing she had some bubble gum, or a mint. _Something_. 

"It's Michael, Thompson. Go ahead and let them in." Birkoff's voice sounded loud in her ear. 

Nikita had been roused early that morning by Michael's husky, "Josephine." She never quite minded waking up that way, with a little thrill in her abdomen. Unfortunately, she'd drank a mug of instant coffee and ran out the door without brushing her teeth. Now, hours later, the resulting taste was revolting. Nikita could think of only one word to describe it: blyeach. She should have stuck with tea. 

Her thoughts immediately cleared of those ruminations as the door cracked open. Nikita grinned as Michael treated being confronted by the muzzle of a gun as an everyday occurrence, waiting politely for it to be taken out of his face. He could just as well be line for an elevator, had any passers-by seen him. The gun was immediately withdrawn and the door cracked open a little wider. 

Thompson had that familiar, scared look on his face; it had been his duty to pull the gun and protect the level one collateral, but he wasn't quite sure how Michael would take it as he stepped through the doorway. And he was trying to hide it behind a macho veneer as Michael and Nikita dropped their black duffel bags to the floor. 

"You're here to relieve me?" he grunted, puffing out his chest. 

Michael quietly surveyed the rooms, slowly unbuttoning his black overcoat with his left hand. The collateral and his wife were sitting on the sofa farther in the enormous room, watching television. Michael slanted a look at Nikita. She nodded and began sweeping the apartment. 

His pale eyes finally found their way back to Thompson's jittery form. "Debrief." 

Thompson had to visibly restrain himself from saluting the Team Leader, but Michael didn't acknowledge his slip. "Yes, sir. We've got teams in the rooms above and below, and on each side. Surveillance in the hallways and in all the rooms we're covering. There's been no hostile activity so far." 

"Do you have a lap top computer here?" Michael's eyes were off again, tracking the progress of the man he knew only as Pfizer as he crossed the room. 

"Yeah, it's right over there." Thompson gestured with his chin towards a small table and chair. 

"Gather your gear and you can go." 

************ 

When the door closed behind Thompson, Michael found himself confronted by Pfizer and his immature-looking wife. Jeff Pfizer had the air of a rich, blonde playboy about him, and his wife radiated "college prep". Nikita trailed behind, an amused look taking up residence around her mouth. 

Rather than address them, Michael pulled his gloves off methodically, finger by finger. Pfizer broke first. 

"So who are you two supposed to be? Mulder and Scully? Villains from Melrose Place?" 

Pfizer's wife tittered beside him. Michael's nostrils flared slightly, and Nikita took the initiative. 

"I'm Nikita. You can call _him_ Michael," she said, consciously mimicking his oft-repeated words. Her grin was feral, but only Michael knew the difference. 

"My father said that the very best would be provided for me. So when are they going to get here?" Jeff sneered. 

Nikita thought it might not be in good taste to throttle the snot. Her mood had improved since she had found, and subsequently stolen, the complimentary mints from the pillows in the bedroom. The sheer plushness of the hotel room had also lightened her mood; the thick, beige carpeting and overstuffed white furniture agreed with her. She and Michael, from the way Operations had made it sound, were in for an extended stay. It paid to be in comfortable surroundings on a mission like this. 

Michael circled Pfizer with a predatory gleam in his ice-green eyes. "We're here to protect you," he said finally. Michael halted gracefully and placed his gloves on an oak end table. 

"Oh, I get it. She's the brawn and you're the brains, right?" Jeff replied, throwing his right arm around his giggling wife's shoulders. 

Nikita nearly laughed. She was beginning to imagine what life was going to be like cooped up with Jeffrey Pfizer and his marzipan-brained wife twenty-four hours a day. The fact that he wasn't a very perceptive man wouldn't get him very far with Michael, supposing that Nikita didn't hurt him first. 

Pfizer had done the very worst thing he could have done, short of hanging a target on his back; he had underestimated Michael. 

************ 

Michael had a certain elegant way of carrying himself which suggested he would be physically ineffectual, Nikita mused. Unless one _knew_ how dangerous Michael was, his precise movements would persuade otherwise. 

Pfizer seemed to have pegged Michael as a wuss. Indeed, Michael's black jacket seemed to swallow his dimensions, making him appear smaller than Nikita knew him to be. In full mission gear, Michael cut an imposing figure; more so, now that the length of his hair had been shortened. The hints of his physique were there in the strong column of his neck and his broad shoulders. The regular features of his face, especially his full lips, might detract from any sense of threat-as long as Michael wanted it that way. 

Michael had yet to answer Pfizer's taunt. He had been listening to Birkoff through his feed. 

"What about team four?" he murmured. 

Pfizer's wife wiggled around in her husband's arms and pouted at Nikita over his shoulder. "Who's he talking to?" 

Nikita untied the belt of her polyvinyl jacket. "Michael is the Team Leader. Everything gets coordinated through him," she said, throwing her jacket carelessly onto the love seat. Pfizer whistled at the strong lines of her body; Nikita had donned a sleeveless mesh top and low-rider leathers earlier this morning. 

"I guess that answers my question," he joked. Nikita didn't appreciate his look, or the answering glare of his little wife. "If there was a Commando Barbie, you could be the model." 

"Yes." 

It was Michael, speaking into the black com-unit. Nikita wondered, however, how much of a coincidence his spoken agreement had been. He moved over to the table and pulled the lap top open. While he waited for it to boot up, Michael went through a seemingly endless series of one-word questions with Birkoff. 

"Why? How? Meaning? Now?" 

Michael tapped in a sequence and pulled a micro disk from his coat pocket. "How long, Birkoff?" Michael turned away from the computer and shrugged off his jacket, folding it carefully over the top of Nikita's. "Okay." 

Michael locked his pale eyes on Pfizer. "Someone would like to speak with you." 

************ 

Pfizer cleared his throat self-consciously. "Who?" 

Michael didn't answer; he simply turned to face Pfizer. His black T-shirt was taut across his chest. Two large, silver guns were snugged under Michael's arms via a leather holster. Legs planted wide, strong arms crossed, Michael answered, "Please sit down." 

When Pfizer cast a perturbed glance at his wife and hesitated, Michael qualified his statement. "Now." 

Pfizer began moving immediately. His wife held stubbornly to his hand and trailed after him. 

"Just you," Michael said, taking a step back and freeing his arms. Nikita's hand on her shoulder held the woman back. Nikita gave her a warning glance when she seemed about to speak. 

Pfizer seated himself, jumping as Michael held a com-unit a few centimeters from his eyes. He fumbled with it for a moment, finally hooking the correct end into his right ear. Michael leaned over Pfizer, allowing him a long, hard look at the glock, and pulled the computer around to face him. 

"Ready, Birkoff," Michael said and began to type with his right hand, his left resting on the back of Pfizer's chair. 

Nikita desperately wanted to take him aside and ask him what was about to happen. Michael had been conversing with Birkoff on a private channel. Nikita held her tongue; she would find out soon enough. She wasn't about to make any move that could be construed as a challenge of Michael's authority with Pfizer around. 

Birkoff's voice exploded in her ear after the long auditory drought. "The secure video downlink is ready. There'll be a three second lag, nothing I can do." 

The window opened on the lap top screen, black and blank. Michael typed for a few more seconds. 

Nikita bit her cheek when Operations' face appeared on the screen. He didn't look happy 

"Uncle Paul!" Jeffrey Pfizer blurted, his smug smile spreading across his face once more. 

************ 

If Michael was surprised by Pfizer's outburst, he didn't show it. Neither, for that matter, did Nikita. She just barely kept her fingers from tightening painfully on - what was her name, anyway? Nikita couldn't recall it from the profile she'd barely had time to read, much less study. She almost hadn't remembered that Pfizer was married, not that he seemed mature enough for the responsibility, in the slightest degree. 

"Jeffrey," Operations stated equably. "Your father asked for my help. I agreed to provide it, on one condition." 

"Oh, Dad's loaded. You know that," Pfizer said dismissively. 

"Money is not a relevant factor," Operations snapped, the pupils in his blue eyes narrowing in irritation. "Your life is in danger, Jeffrey. Do you understand that if you refuse to comply with this condition, I will withdraw any and _all_ protection?" 

With the ease only a rich, twenty-four year old could muster, Pfizer said, "Sure. What is it?" 

Operations stared stonily at the young man before creasing his face in an oddly pleased smile. "You answer to Michael. He runs the show. _Anything_ he orders you to do, you do it. Your life _will_ depend on it." 

Pfizer rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Michael? Oh, come _on_. He's _French_." 

Rising, for once, to defend Michael, Operations laughed. "Michael is the best in the field. If you are refusing to accept Michael and Nikita as your bodyguards, then I'll have to call your father and-" 

"Wait!" Pfizer sighed and rolled his eyes again. "Okay, Uncle Paul. I _agree_." 

"Repeat after me: I will do everything Michael says," Operations drawled. Nikita wasn't clear on their relationship dynamics, but it didn't appear that Operations really _cared_ for the young man. 

Pfizer reddened, but complied. "I will do everything Michael says." 

"Good to see you again, Jeffrey," Operations said, leaning forward to switch off his screen. 

"Wait. Who does Michael answer to?" Pfizer demanded, determined to regain some of his control over the situation. Instead of answering, Operations pinned him with a glacial stare, and the screen went blank. 

************ 

"What are my orders, sir?" Pfizer said, craning his neck back to grin flippantly at Michael. Michael blinked at him and leisurely slid his eyes toward Nikita. "Stay out of the way." Michael brought his gaze abruptly back to Pfizer's face to ram his point home. Jeff stood up and moved out of Michael's radius, forgoing comment; Michael turned his back on the younger man and pressed a button on his com-unit. 

Dropping her hand from her shoulder and giving - _Krissy, that was her name_ \- an insincere smile, Nikita skirted widely around Pfizer. There was a small twist in the leather holster strap that ran across the broad expanse of Michael's back. Nikita tugged it into place and ran a smoothing hand along the rest of the strap; Michael acknowledged her with a brief head turn. Nikita gave him a genuine smile and continued to walk around Michael, hand trailing over his shoulder blades. 

It was a blatant assertion of possession and unity, but Nikita didn't want Pfizer getting any ideas. Michael caught her eyes, and she nodded. 

Nikita circled back to the bags, picking up Michael's and bringing the heavier surveillance equipment to the table. After unzipping it, Nikita walked to the door which joined the Pfizers' rooms with another suite and knocked three times. She returned, moments later with a steaming cup of coffee, which she handed wordlessly to Michael as he continued to coordinate teams and review Intel. 

Nikita rifled through their bag of clothes and assorted odds and ends until she found her PDA. 

"Do you two have implants, or something? Don't you need to talk every once in a while?" Pfizer hadn't moved, although Krissy had sat down and already begun watching television. Cartoons, Nikita noted. Rather than answer him, she goaded him further by plucking the com-unit from his ear and returning to Michael's side: all without saying nary a word. 

There was a huff of disgust and a door slam. Then the sounds of a shower muffled by the strains of the cartoon, "Johnny Bravo." Krissy was giggling helplessly. 

Nikita allowed herself a small smile as she re-read the profile. She was curious as to why, exactly, Section was protecting the spoiled snot. Nikita was willing to bet her toothpaste that it was all Jeffrey Pfizer's fault. 

The more Nikita read, the more her stomach clenched with anger. She looked up to find Michael staring at her. From his expression, Nikita gleaned that this was definitely a _favor_ mission. 

************ 

Three days. Three hellacious days. That's all the time they had been cooped up with Jeff and Krissy. Nikita had a constant headache now, and her back was sore from sleeping on a cot. Nikita was sure that Michael hadn't spoken more than three words in the last twenty-four hours. She would have laughed at his grim expression as he woke her up to take her turn standing watch, except for the intense, throbbing sensation in her head. 

Nikita checked her clip as Michael spread himself out on the floor after folding up the cot. Even if it hadn't been too narrow for him, Michael would have chosen the floor. After the first night, in which he thrashed himself off the cot to land in an undignified heap on the soft carpet, Michael would never look at a cot the same way again. Nikita had been stuck for an emotion. She was shocked by the violence of the nightmare which had so obviously held him in its grasp, but watching Michael literally _fall_ out of bed... 

It was akin to a jungle panther falling out of a tree and landing on its back, paws in the air. Uproariously funny, but you were almost afraid to laugh and further injure its dignity. 

Nikita could almost take Krissy's television addiction and Pfizer's overwhelming need to feel self-important by indulging in somewhat-less-than witty repartees. But it was the parading around in underwear that had really gotten on Nikita's nerves. 

Knowing that Section One was extending its formidable services to protect an idiot wasn't helping, either. 

The profile stated that Jeffrey Pfizer had been doing some underhanded dealing with a major drug cartel. He had been laundering money, all the while _majorly_ skimming off the top. Obviously, Pfizer had failed do to the math, and now several drug lords were gunning for him. The only reason Jeffrey Pfizer was still alive was that his father was highly placed in the U.S. Government. That, and his father knew Operations and had asked for a whopping personal favor. He must have promised something irresistible in return for Operations to put Michael on this assignment. 

Being in mortal danger didn't seem to affect Mr. and Mrs. Pfizer in any normal way, a fact which shouldn't have taken Nikita by surprise. Krissy, from day one, had taken to lounging around in the hotel room with only a sheer nightie to cover her. Nikita hadn't been able to tell if it was a come-on to Michael, or if the girl simply had no tact. When Jeff had exited the bathroom, sporting only a towel wrapped around his waist, Nikita gathered the couple enjoyed displaying their gym-toned bodies. They probably do this at home with their curtains open, Nikita had thought snidely. 

At least Michael had done it with more style. 

************ 

He'd swung the door open, a cloud of steam following him out into the room. She still had no idea what had possessed him to do it, walking out with just a towel. It was a good thing the enemy hadn't attacked right then, because Nikita had been more than a little distracted. Hell, she'd forgotten her own _name_ for a moment. 

Michael had certainly given Jeff and Krissy a lesson in how to wear very little. He'd prowled out of the bathroom, damp hair curling on the nape of his neck. He must have cranked the sensuality meter up to full blast. With every perfectly coordinated step, his wet skin glistened over rippling muscles. His sheer lack of ostentation and consciousness of his near nudity had Nikita biting her lower lip. He'd moved to within a hair's breadth of her, digging in their shared "suitcase" for another shirt and his razor. The warmth of his nearness touched off memories Nikita was desperately struggling to suppress. 

Her legs around his waist in Lyons, on the boat. The feel of his hard chest after she had stripped him of his shirt, during the Armel mission; how she'd completely forgotten the cameras when Michael's mouth had descended upon her sensitive throat. 

She'd banished those thoughts, one by one. Still, when Michael glanced her way before returning to the bathroom, the look she'd given in return was a heavy-lidded gaze of pure lust. The flick of his tongue to catch a drop of water running down his face had nearly undone her. _That_ , Nikita was sure, he had done deliberately. 

Nikita had crossed her legs uncomfortably as Michael finished up in the bathroom. Her only consolation was that Jeff and Krissy had remained fully clothed since Michael's little display. Perhaps they _could_ be taught. 

At least, Nikita thought, we're getting out of this room tonight. 

According to the profile, Jeff and Krissy were supposed to adhere as closely to their normal routine as possible, so as to not alert any potential hit men of Section's protection. Not that any self-respecting hit man wouldn't spot them as professional bodyguards with a simple zoom lens. Nevertheless, Jeff and Krissy's usual Friday night haunt was some place called, "The Country Bar." 

From the name, Nikita deduced that it was either a strip club, or a watering-hole for those twisted people who liked to line-dance. 

At this point, Nikita was willing to take anything. 

************ 

Nikita pulled a pair of battered blue jeans from the valise Madeline had sent up. She held them up against her and turned her body to the left and right. 

"Those are mine." 

Nikita clenched her teeth and rolled her head back on her neck. In Section, there was a slight echo to warn her of his approach; Michael padding barefoot across carpet made no discernible sound. He reached his arm around her and pulled the jeans from her unresisting grasp. Michael stepped closer and his chest brushed against her right shoulder-blade. He freed a dark blue, button-down shirt from the case. It fell across Nikita's arm as Michael moved away; the shirt was made of some soft, very touchable fabric. 

"Michael," Nikita called. He turned around, clothes draped over his shoulder. "You forgot these." Nikita tossed the leather cowboy boots, which Michael caught deftly. 

"Thanks." 

Nikita tugged on the western style fringed shirt and pulled her cowboy hat lower on her forehead. "We stick out," she muttered sideways to Michael. 

Michael slipped his arm around her waist and bent to press his lips close to her ear. "Obviously," he murmured, and guided her to sit at the bar. The two Section operatives _did_ stick out, like a Rembrandt amidst amateurish watercolors of sailboats. 

Like two covert assassins in a country and western bar. 

They were beautifully foreign. Faces turned as they threaded across the bar, as flowers follow the sun. 

The moment Michael had stepped into the dim, smoke-filled establishment, he called Birkoff through his com-unit. "Downgrade Nikita and me to peripheral surveillance. Julie and Davis, take point." 

"Why, Michael?" Birkoff blurted. 

"Do it, Birkoff." 

Nikita sipped at her beer. "What will you tell Madeline when she finds out you didn't follow profile?" 

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, scanning the crowd for Pfizer. 

"Your hat. You didn't wear it," Nikita deadpanned. Nikita could see the muscles in Michael's jaw working as he tried not to smile. 

"And where are your chaps?" he said finally, returning his gaze to her face. 

Nikita licked her lips and scooted her barstool closer to Michael so that her knees touched the insides of his splayed thighs. "Mmm. I thought I would save those for later." 

************ 

The idea had been that Nikita would pose as Jeffrey Pfizer's cousin. She and Michael were newlyweds, and had blown into town for a visit. If asked, Pfizer was to introduce them as such. Nikita hadn't worried about Pfizer or his complete lack of acting skills; it was unlikely that she would have coaxed Michael out onto the dance floor. But with the abrupt realization that they couldn't function covertly by blending into the crowd, Nikita had been at a loss for what to do...until the game started. 

Nikita supposed it had begun when she teased Michael by shifting herself into a more provocative position. What she hadn't expected was that Michael responded accordingly. She _had_ sat on his lap, but Nikita had thought Michael's legendary control would take hold. 

They had been nursing beers for about an hour when Nikita elected to find the ladies room. On her way back to the bar, a petite redhead was sitting on her stool with a hand on Michael's sinewy forearm. Although it seemed inconceivable that he had made a joke, the redhead was giggling prettily. When Nikita materialized at his side and Michael didn't readily acknowledge her, Nikita gave in to impulse and wiggled onto his lap. Although he snaked an arm around her waist to keep her upright, Michael had continued chatting. The woman quickly lost interest when Nikita decided to butt in with, "Hi, I'm Michael's wife. And you are?" 

When she vacated the stool, Nikita moved to stand up. Michael's arm tightened around her waist, fingers trailing idly across her jean-covered hip. 

"Where are you going?" he whispered into her ear. 

Nikita leaned into him until her back was flush against his chest. "Nowhere." She rested her head on his shoulder and grinned. 

Michael's eyes gleamed a warning, and then his soft lips began nibbling along her exposed neck. He suckled her skin with his insistent mouth, nipping gently with his teeth. Nikita's breath caught raggedly in her throat and she unconsciously writhed against the thigh she straddled. Michael gave an almost inaudible growl and increased the pressure of his arm until she stilled. 

And so the game had begun: each attempting to bring the other to an intense, frustrating arousal without being completely distracted from surveillance. 

************ 

Nikita had finally convinced Michael to let her off his lap with a whispered, "My turn." She faced him, fingers brushing over the soft fabric covering his chest. The live band in the corner of the bar kicked out a country song, and Nikita swayed rhythmically to the steady beat. She danced in front of Michael, so close that her zipper brushed his kneecap. Just as Michael seemed about to reach out to her, Nikita danced closer. She swayed, rubbing her groin lightly against the top of his thigh. One thumb stroked in time over his clenched bicep. Nikita didn't give in to the delicious, spreading warmth, not even when Michael's eyes darkened to an intense green. Her will nearly broke when his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. 

It was his move. Without warning, he took it and slid his leg out from between hers. Michael snagged her by the belt and pulled her forcefully forward. When she was flush against his heat, his thighs clamped low around her hips. Then, unexpectedly, Michael leaned against the bar and took a sip from his beer. Nikita hooked her fingers into his belt loops and waited for what was surely next. But Michael stayed back, a small curl edging his lips. 

Nikita noticed, after a moment, that the urgency she had been feeling had not faded an iota. In fact, her arousal seemed to be deepening. Nikita concentrated, and felt the faint thrusting of Michael's hips. The subtle rocking was achingly, painfully erotic. It fueled Nikita's next move. 

She leaned forward slowly, capturing his eyes. Her mouth descended on his, brushing and pulling away. She rubbed her lower lip on his, breathing in his slight exhalations. She was literally breathing him into herself. Michael groaned and took his turn by pulling her lower lip inside his mouth. When he released it, he slanted his lips across hers, tongue delving and stroking the velvety interior of her mouth. 

They broke the kiss with a fevered gasp. "What's Pfizer's location?" Michael asked huskily. Nikita flicked her eyes up to the mirrored back of the bar. 

"Left of the band stand doing the two-step," she whispered into his ear, taking his earlobe between her teeth and tugging gently. 

"Good girl," he murmured. 

Nikita turned her attentions to his corded neck, biting him gently at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. She licked to soothe the reddened skin. 

Michael's hands pressed warningly on her hips. "Nikita." 

"What?" she snapped. 

"Bouncer's headed this way," he said, releasing her from the cradle of his thighs. 

Nikita backed away a few inches and took Michael's face between her palms. She smiled as his eyes crinkled. Her shoulders shook with silent laughter. 

"What will we tell Madeline?" she choked out. That they had been bounced for necking? That they had been kicked out for lewd behavior? 

"We were maintaining our cover," Michael replied. 

************ 

Nikita burst into a loud guffaw right as the bouncer finished picking his way across the crowded bar. He was a big man, topping Michael by nearly six inches. The collar of his emblazoned T-shirt was tight; he suffered from a body-builder's "no-neck" syndrome. Michael lifted his face to gaze at the bouncer's cherubic grin, a cool mask of pure intimidation rippling smoothly into place. 

Nikita expected him to cross his arms, give them a quick harangue, and politely ask them to leave. From the way Michael had slipped from playful to icy, so did he. 

Instead, the bouncer chuckled and shoved a roll of bills into Michael's front pocket. 

"What is this?" Michael asked. He was using the tone that had sent many a Cold Op quivering when a mission hadn't been completed to his satisfaction. 

"Our drink sales are up fifty percent since you two started going at it. You've got an appreciative audience over there." The bouncer kicked his head back. Nikita leaned around the man. A mostly male group of around twenty people whistled and waved, giving Nikita the thumb's up sign. 

"And the money?" 

Although he was massive, the bouncer didn't seem stumped by Michael's paucity of words. "You two can have that if you keep it up for another hour or so. Compliments of a very happy manager." 

"Nikita," Michael said. Nikita gave a little wave to the group. 

"Yes, Michael?" 

"Ask Krissy and Jeff how much longer they'd like to stay." 

Nikita nodded and plunged into the crowd. 

The bouncer took the stool next to Michael and leaned towards him conspiratorially. "You know, there's a betting pool going," he hedged. 

"On what are they betting?" Michael asked, his eyes following Nikita. 

"Which one of you breaks first. How long you'll last...you know, the usual." 

"Really." 

If the bouncer noticed that Michael didn't partake in his proffered bonhomie, he didn't comment on it. "Yeah, I was hoping you'd give me some insider information." 

"I wouldn't bet on either of us, sailor." Nikita's voice so close to his ear caused the bouncer to flinch in surprise. Nikita mentally scolded him for his lack of awareness and poor technical training. 

"Not tonight," Michael agreed, making room for a snuggling Nikita on his lap. 

************ 

Nikita had insisted that they give the money back to the manager, with the instructions that it be used to buy two rounds of drinks for the disappointed group of men who were casting pouts in her general direction. 

Jeff and Krissy had decided to leave about fifteen minutes later; Nikita was relieved that they wouldn't be approached by some very inebriated cowboy requesting that they start going at it again. 

In the limo ride back to the hotel, Pfizer had harped on her and Michael. He had compared them to rutting animals, exhaustively cataloguing their technique. Nikita gritted her teeth, figuring Pfizer would shut up after around ten minutes of their non-reaction. Krissy sat smirking beside her husband. 

If Michael can take it, so can I, Nikita thought glumly. 

Twenty minutes later, and almost to the hotel, Nikita threw in the towel. Pfizer had just offered to produce a porno, in which she and Michael would star. Before she could lean across the seat and throttle the snot, Michael spoke. 

"Pfizer." 

"He speaks!" Jeffrey Pfizer exclaimed, touching off one of Krissy's giggling fits. 

Michael cocked his head. "Be quiet." His voice was soft and loaded with threat. 

"Yeah, right," Pfizer dismissed. He took his eyes off Michael to grin triumphantly at his wife. 

Before Nikita could blink, Michael hovered over Pfizer, one knee perched on the seat. Horrible sounds were coming from his throat as Michael pressed his forearm into his windpipe. Krissy looked on in shock. 

"That's an order," Michael told him softly. Pfizer scrabbled at Michael's arm, which only resulted in him pressing more forcefully against his throat. "Blink twice if you understand." 

Pfizer's white-rimmed eyes blinked twice in a spastic motion. 

Michael pulled away from Pfizer, settling elegantly back into the leather seat next to Nikita. She nodded to him, a combination message of _thank you_ and _well done_. 

************ 

Striding through the richly appointed lobby, Nikita felt the first tingles of apprehension stream down her spine. Throwing a warning glance at Michael, she smoothly changed direction and covered Pfizer from the other side. 

The jittery feeling only got worse as she climbed into the elevator. Nikita could barely contain her agitation. 

"Birkoff, is there any movement in the ninth floor hallway?" 

"I'm not reading anything, Michael. Is there something wrong?" Birkoff asked absently. The elevator chimed as the doors slid open. Michael pointed his hand away from the Pfizers' room. He waited for Nikita's confirming nod and stepped fluidly out of the elevator, gun drawn. Nikita ushered Jeff and Krissy out a moment later, nearly shoving them around the corner as Michael covered them outside the closing elevator doors. 

A red pinprick moved across Michael's face. "Get down," he ordered. 

Gunfire erupted a second later. Nikita bit her cheek when Michael jerked back after pulling off three rounds. Michael rolled to the corner, brandishing his second gun when he came to his feet. 

"How many?" 

"One left," Michael grunted. Before Nikita could act, Michael was already up and taking cover behind a large potted palm. A bark chip splintered off, revealing the shooter's location in its trajectory. Michael squeezed off one more round, and then Nikita heard him put in an order for Housekeeping. 

Michael moved forward cautiously, checking pulses on the bloodied bodies littering the hallway. 

"Michael?" Nikita strained to see his injury, unable to leave the cowering Pfizers. 

"Flesh wound. I'm fine," he answered. 

Sure you are, Nikita thought disparagingly. 

"Where's the backup team, Birkoff? We need to secure the area." 

"ETA is thirty seconds." Birkoff's soft voice was interrupted by a deeper, much harsher one. 

"Michael, what happened up there?" Operations demanded. 

"We were ambushed coming out of the elevator." 

"And the collateral?" 

"It's secure." 

************ 

"Sit." 

Nikita glared at Michael until he acquiesced. 

"Off," she said, gesturing at his shirt. 

Thompson muffled a laugh, nudging Lee with his elbow. Lee shot him a murderous look and edged away, clutching his automatic closer. Thompson straightened when Nikita spun around and stalked to his side. 

"Do you find something amusing, Thompson?" Nikita drawled, eyes flashing dangerously. 

"N-no," Thompson blurted. 

"Then why did you laugh?" Nikita asked coolly, tilting her chin up. She was staring down her nose at Thompson in her cowboy boots, taller than him by several inches. 

"I-I was remembering this joke," Thompson stammered. 

"Which one?" 

"You know, the one about the blonde who-" 

Nikita's eyes narrowed when Thompson trailed off. "Who did what?" 

"I-I don't remember." 

"Bring me the emergency medical kit, Thompson," Nikita said. Thompson scrambled to do as she told, rummaging wildly through the black duffel bags. He handed it to her wordlessly; Nikita turned back towards Michael. "Oh, and Thompson? Don't bother to pull your foot out of your mouth if it'll keep you quiet." 

Michael was unbuttoning his shirt as she approached. She helped him slide it off, smearing blood across his shoulder and down his arm. Nikita snapped open the medical kit and tried to ignore the sculpted lines of Michael's chest and abdomen. There was something utterly delicious about Michael's chest, and Nikita knew if she didn't control herself, Thompson and Lee would get a repeat performance from the bar. 

The bullet had dug a furrow through the fleshy part of Michael's shoulder, the ragged edges leaking blood. When Nikita touched Michael's smooth skin to probe the wound, all the electricity that had thrummed in her veins a mere hour before ignited once again. She could feel the color flushing her face and was glad that her back was to the rest of the room. Nikita took a few deep breaths to calm her shaking hands and quickly cleaned the gash. 

"I don't think it needs stitches," she murmured to Michael, chancing a peek at his face. He was staring at her intently; Nikita flashed him a quick smile. He had actually told her the truth. She moved closer to apply the dressing, biting her lower lip until she tasted blood when the inside of her thigh brushed against his. "All done," Nikita said. She stepped back and sighed deeply when Michael stood up. Barefoot and bare-chested, in jeans. 

Nikita was making rapid mental alterations in some of her better fantasies when Pfizer came out of his bedroom. 

"What the hell was that all about?" 

************ 

Her arousal churned into a white hot rage. Clenching and unclenching her hands, Nikita was ready to storm across the room and take Pfizer down with a flying kick to the cranium. Unpredictably, Michael ran interference. 

He moved around her and approached Pfizer with what could only be classified as a _strut_. Nikita's anger bled back into arousal as she watched Michael walk. 

"You're uninjured. The situation has been contained," Michael told him, his soft voice hypnotically soothing. Nikita realized Michael had seen something she had not; Pfizer was afraid. 

So scared, that he was willing to antagonize the very man who might have cheerfully throttled him thirty minutes earlier. Pfizer's arms were wrapped tightly against his midsection. 

"And?" he prodded. 

Michael canted his upper body forward. "And that's all you need to know." 

Pfizer _definitely_ did not need to know how the hit men had evaded Section's notice, Nikita thought. He didn't need to know that a singles convention had hit town that weekend, and that Birkoff hadn't been able to verify all the identities of the participants mingling in the hotel ball room. He did not need to know that the four women who had been wined and dined at the singles convention were quietly sleeping off the effects of the Rohypnol, awaiting memory modification in the bowels of Section. All he needed to know was that the four assassin lotharios were very dead, and that for the time being, he was safe. 

Jeffrey Pfizer nodded sharply, cowed for the moment; he turned on his heel and stalked back into the bedroom. Krissy had been hanging back in the doorway, and now approached Michael. She blanched at the drying blood on Michael's arm. 

"Are you okay?" she asked. 

Nikita was rocked back on her heels by the concern evident in the airhead's voice. 

"I'm fine," Michael said. 

Krissy lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Michael's neck. "Thank you." At first, Nikita was touched by Krissy's about-face. When Krissy didn't release Michael from the hug, Nikita followed Michael's path across the room. She was determined to "rescue" him from her grasp, feeling intensely possessive of what she thought of as _her_ bare-chested, barefoot Michael in jeans. 

Before she reached him, however, Krissy pulled back. "Can I kiss you the French way?" she asked. Horrified by what might follow, Nikita increased her pace. 

Encouraged by Michael's blink, Krissy gave him a quick peck on each cheek. 

************ 

Nikita reached Michael's side as Krissy followed her husband into the bedroom, leaving the door open. Krissy's enthusiastic hug had dislodged Nikita's careful bandaging, and his wound was bleeding again. 

"Do you think we should cauterize it with gunpowder?" Nikita asked flippantly. 

Michael parted his lips in surprise. He had forgotten that Nikita was present in the Section plane that had transported them back from Eastern Europe. He and Madeline had been forced into the medical bay for treatment: Madeline, for her induced heart attack; Michael, for his multiple gunshot wounds. Despite being hovered over by doctors, Madeline had demanded that he debrief. Igraine Petrosian, the deep cover operative for Section One whom Madeline had been sent in to rescue, had disappeared to contact Operations the moment he set foot in the plane. 

_"What did you use to cauterize the wound on your forearm, Michael?" Madeline had asked, not satisfied with Michael's simple explanation._

_"Gunpowder." A med tech had gasped and dropped a metal tray of instruments; he remembered the look of pity in her luminous eyes, which he had returned as she was escorted out of the room. She wouldn't last long._

_"Crude, but effective. It's worked well for you in the past," Madeline had commented._

_"Yes."_

_Nikita had swallowed dryly, ignored in the corner._

"Gunpowder?" he repeated. Nikita smiled whimsically at his confusion and ripped the remains of the bandage away. "I could ask the front desk to send up some kerosene," Michael offered. 

Nikita heard a spluttering sound in her ear. "Good one, Michael," Birkoff muttered. 

Michael had made a joke. 

An esoteric joke, Nikita amended, seeing Pfizer's faintly shocked face in the doorway. Krissy's bow-like mouth was pursed with concern. 

"I think there's some kerosene in the emergency kit," Nikita quipped for their benefit. "Let's get you cleaned up in the bathroom." 

************ 

Upon walking into the bathroom, Nikita found herself derogatorily muttering, "Can I kiss you the French way?" Nikita had set her com-unit on 'receive only' at Michael's private signal, before reaching the door. The door latched shut behind them. 

"Ni-ki-ta." She found herself pulled around and into Michael's strong grasp. Nikita saw the need glittering in his eyes as his mouth descended on hers. 

Oh, yes. Michael kissed her the _French_ way. 

His hot tongue slipped between her lips, mating with her mouth. Nikita gave a low groan as his tongue rubbed frantically against hers, lips caressing and teeth nipping. Michael backed her against the sink, his hands sinking greedily into her hair. Nikita avoided his injured shoulder and settled her hands on his hips, pressing him closer. She ground against his rapidly hardening arousal, hiking one leg up and around his waist. 

Michael rested his forehead on her shoulder as they both came up gasping for air. When he lifted his face to hers, the urgent look was confined in his gray-green eyes. He silently communicated to her that it could go no further. Not with the mission, not with Thompson and Lee outside. Not with Madeline's ever observant eye; if they spent too long together in the bathroom, she would surely ask questions. Nikita's brain understood, but her body threatened to betray her. A quickie wouldn't quiet her hormones, anyway, she thought. Not with Michael. 

"No more," Nikita agreed huskily. 

Michael brought his hand up, brushing the tips of his fingers against her cheekbone. "No. Not yet." 

Nikita's eyes fluttered shut. He had said that to her before, "Not yet." But this time, Nikita sensed a definite _intent_ behind his words. His voice was loaded with raw promise, a promise that there _would_ be a later. 

Nikita slipped her hand into Michael's, lacing her fingers with his. He squeezed her hand and sat on the edge of the tub. Nikita held the contact as long as she could, wiping away the blood with a warm wash cloth. 

************ 

Madeline, in an odd moment of concern, had given her and Michael twelve hours off. Perhaps it was a reward for not killing Pfizer or his wife; perhaps it was for anticipating the attack. When Michael repeated Madeline's _recommendation_ that they each take a room at the hotel and try to _relax_...well, Madeline's choice of words had been unfortunate. 

Oh, I want to relax, Nikita thought. Just not how Madeline thinks. 

She communicated this non-verbally to Michael. He nodded. They started out the door. When Nikita ducked back in to grab their shared duffel, Thompson gave her an unsettled glance. Nikita grinned and pointedly didn't bother to separate their things. 

Michael had turned their com-units off and stuffed them into his coat pocket before they approached the front desk. Nikita took that as a sign; if Section wanted to communicate with him, they would need to use his cellular. 

Nikita entered the room ahead of Michael and took the duffel bag with her into the bathroom. Michael had shrugged off his jacket and pulled off his shoes when Nikita came back out. 

Nikita reveled in his throaty gasp; his flushed cheeks; his narrowed eyes. 

She was wearing the suede chaps, and nothing else. 

He approached her slowly, brushing her blonde hair from her shoulders to rub his lips across her neck. His fingers trailed gently down her arms, the sides of her breasts, stopping on the soft skin of her rear. 

He was being tender with her. Nikita wanted that, later. Her need was too prevalent and too urgent to take his soft touches much longer. Nikita trembled with the weight of her desire; shivering as much at his touch as with the hot flush that crept over her skin. 

Michael, somehow sensing her need, clutched her to him so that his belt buckled pressed almost painfully into her navel. His mouth captured hers, tongue arrogant and demanding. It would have seemed violent, if it hadn't been what Nikita wanted. Michael's lips tortured her, raining hot kisses over her face and neck. His mouth devoured her, tongue rubbing, licking, teasing. 

Nikita felt Michael laying her down on the bed, gasping as the cold coverlet contrasted sharply with the pulsing heat he had stirred. Michael tore his T-shirt off, mindless of his injury. Nikita sucked in a breath of air through kiss-swollen lips. No matter how many times she saw him like this, she knew she would never get enough. Never. 

With a swift movement, Michael unclasped his belt buckle and stepped out of his pants. 

Nikita felt her heart stutter, legs unconsciously falling farther open in invitation. His eyes gave an answering gleam as he climbed onto the bed, prowling up her body. Nikita wrapped her arms around his midsection and pulled him down on her, rubbing her breasts against his chest. He hissed in satisfaction. 

"Now, Michael," she demanded. No more foreplay was needed. 

Michael ran his hand down between them, parting her folds. He found her hot and wet, writhing against his slightest touch. 

"Ni-ki-ta," he rasped, moving his hips over her. But Nikita wouldn't wait any longer. Her hips bucked up, and Michael's hardness plunged into her. 

The friction of him sliding against her inner walls caused her to cry out in ecstasy. "Michael!" He groaned at the urgency in which she said his name, and ceded her the control. Nikita kept him to a furious pace; there was nothing but their gasping lungs and Michael's hardness slamming into her, barely pulling out before entering her completely again. The incredible tension in her was spinning out of control, building at such a momentum, that Nikita knew it would be soon. 

Her orgasm toppled her. Nikita had seen firecrackers behind her eyes with Michael; her back had arched; tears had fallen from her eyes. But this was an explosion all to its own. 

"Oh, God. Michael!" 

It had raged through her like fire in her veins, pulling every muscle taut as she rose to the heights of bliss three times. Michael had stroked her through it, but the lightning contractions of her triple orgasm brought Michael to a violent fulfillment. 

Nikita felt a hand caressing her cheek and rolled over. 

"Ni-ki-ta," Michael repeated insistently. 

"Mmm..." she moaned, throwing an arm over her face. When Nikita sat bolt upright in the cot, Michael moved back to the easy chair. 

Oh, God, Nikita thought. Don't tell me I _dreamt_ that. 

Nikita's cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. "Was I moaning your name?" she asked him huskily. 

Michael's eyes glittered at her through the darkness of the hotel room. "Yes," he told her, voice strained. 

"Do you want to know what I was dreaming about, Michael?" Nikita taunted, rising slowly from the cot. Her nipples were outlined under her black tank top. 

Michael didn't answer, but he didn't bother to hide his considerable arousal. 

"The chaps, Michael. I didn't take them off the whole time," she whispered, tucking her gun in the back of her pants and taking up Michael's usual perch at the computer. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?" 

They both knew sleep was a lost cause. Michael didn't bother to move from the chair, even had he been capable of movement. 

************ 

After Nikita's comments that night, she and Michael had moved gingerly around each other. Both were wary of coming into contact, lest the passion flare into an unstoppable volatility. When they did happen to brush against each other in the hotel room, each hid the startled reactions of their bodies admirably. 

Krissy and Jeff were oblivious to the unspoken torment. Thompson didn't ogle them. Lee didn't avert his gaze out of respect and fear. 

Now if they could fool the cameras, they would be in the clear. 

Madeline, upon request, had sent another packet up to the room. Nikita gratefully discovered within it a few more personal and recreational items. 

Even with the added distractions, Nikita found herself hard put to wrest her mind away from waking fantasies when she was on watch. 

Michael was sitting in the stuffed easy chair, reading a book, of all things. Occasionally, he would glance up and give Nikita an almost pleading look. Chastened, Nikita stopped staring directly at him. She borrowed a tactic from Michael, staring instead at a point up and to the right; she still observed him with her peripheral vision. 

Nikita was running a routine sweep of the rooms when she saw Michael put down his book out of the corner of her eye. He rolled his neck and stood up, walking to the bathroom. 

Nikita detoured in her sweep to pluck up the book. The title was in French. She saved Michael's place with her index finger and flipped through the pages. Some of it appeared to be poetry. Nikita kept her jaw from dropping in surprise and set the book back down where Michael had left it. 

The only French Nikita knew really consisted of, "Bonjour, oui, and merci." Nikita reined in a hysterical chuckle. 

I guess that's all I really need to know, she thought ridiculously. _'Bonjour', Michael. Oh, 'oui', Michael! And later, 'merci'!_ Nikita bit her lip and tried desperately not to giggle as the scene played out in her head. 

She finished the sweep, passing by the door to the bathroom on her way back to the computer. She heard the taps squeak and the sound of water bursting out of the shower head. Nikita didn't attempt to force the image from her mind. She knew it would be impossible. 

Instead, she dragged a chair over to the wall, out of sight of the cameras. Nikita sat back in it and leaned her head against the wall, where Michael was showering only a few inches of drywall away. 

************ 

Michael rested his palms against the shower tiles as the steaming water sluiced over his body. He had just dipped his head under the water to wet his hair when Nikita slipped through the door; the pelting water muffled his hearing, and Michael remained unaware that she had entered. 

When Nikita ripped the shower curtain back, he was justifiably frozen in shock. That is, until she shimmied out of her clothes and stepped in to join him. 

"Ni-ki-ta," he said, keeping his hands on the tiles. Nikita smiled shyly at him; Michael had encapsulated so much in those three syllables. Warning. Need. Irritation. Love. Anger. Lust. 

"The bathroom doesn't have any surveillance, Michael," she drawled. "And there isn't a camera that covers the bathroom door." She moved forward, slipping her hands onto his water-slick shoulders. Nikita traced his healing wound with the tip of a finger, leaning forward to kiss his shoulder. When her breasts rubbed against the expanse of his back, Michael's hands clenched against the wall. He wondered, later, how he hadn't ripped his fingernails out. 

"We're both getting distracted, Michael," she whispered close to his ear. "We have a small window of opportunity. I don't care how little time we have, as long as it involves you _in me_." 

Michael somehow managed to turn around, his core trembling with the thought that she had found a way for them to be together. 

"Ni-ki-ta," he said again, lungs burning with words and inexpressible emotion. But she knew. 

Nikita moved forward and licked the drips of water from his stubbled chin. "We don't have much time, Michael," she said hoarsely. 

With a muffled growl, Nikita pulled Michael against her and supported her back on the tiles. His back was to the spray, and the water trickled over his shoulders and down his finely muscled abdomen. She followed the paths of the drops with her mouth until Michael pulled her up sharply to mate with her mouth. 

His tongue burned hotter than the water steaming the bathroom mirror, in a kiss more fervently erotic than the one he had given her earlier against the sink. He felt her arms wrap around his strong neck. Michael scooped up her hips and Nikita folded her long legs around him. 

"Michael," she gasped, her naked need splayed across her impassioned face. He answered by entering her, slowly easing her hips down on his hardened length. When she sheathed him completely, Nikita teasingly rotated her hips. Michael hissed between clenched teeth, dipping his head to her breasts in retaliation. He nuzzled her nipples with his stubble, taking one between his lips and grazing it with his tongue. He nipped and pulled with his teeth until her fingers dug warningly into his back. She shifted impatiently on him, and Michael began a long, slow stroke. The water pouring between their joined bodies heightened their senses. Nikita's pebbled nipples scraped down his chest as Michael pumped into her, the pace increasing. Nikita's heels dug into Michael back as she arched back, attempting to pull more of him inside her. From the hazy look in her eyes, Michael knew she was close to the edge. All he needed to do was push her over. 

He freed one hand, somehow still stroking into her, hard and furious. Michael slid his hand between their flushed bodies, one finger seeking out Nikita's pleasure. He stroked her clit, plunging into her with even more force. 

Her head snapped back, the cords of her neck taut. "Michael!" It was a low groan torn from the depths of her soul. He came with her, capturing her mouth with his lips as he exploded within her spasming walls. 

She sagged against him, legs still wound about his waist. He met her eyes when they finally fluttered open. There were no words. 

They never needed any, not like this. 

_Hold me_ , her eyes said. 

"I don't think I can walk," she whispered aloud. 

Michael answered her with his eyes. _I don't think I can let you go_. 

************ 

Nikita was sitting in the chair outside the bathroom when Thompson burst through the door. 

"What's going on?" she demanded, snapping instantly onto alert. 

"Where's Michael?" he asked nonchalantly, entirely at odds with his entrance into the room. 

"Why?" she snapped, eyes narrowing. 

"Well, Operations wanted to speak with Michael and Birkoff said he couldn't raise either of you. So he sent me up here to-" 

Thompson's narrative was abruptly cut off by Michael exiting the bathroom. He had slipped on his jeans again; Michael was barefoot, bare-chested, and dripping wet. 

Nikita's pupils dilated and she lost all feeling from her neck down. _Dear Jesus_ , she thought desperately. How can I want him again already? 

She pushed her hair behind her ears and was satisfied that only the ends were still damp from her impromptu _shower_ with Michael. She had left the bathroom first when she finally recovered from Michael's explosive lovemaking. 

He had stayed to actually finish washing, something which Nikita hadn't given him time for in her seduction. The sweet sense of fulfillment that had imbued Nikita with distinctly satisfied air was fraying apart. 

Her groin clenched as Michael stalked forward, his jeans molded to him like a second skin. A skin which, at that moment, Nikita would cheerfully wrestle with the devil to be able to peel off. Unable to help herself, Nikita tracked the rivulets of water as they dripped from the nape of his neck and down his powerful back, until disappearing down the loose waist of his jeans. Michael hadn't bothered to button the top snap. 

Yup, Nikita decided. He's trying to drive me insane. 

He raised a muscled arm and placed the com-unit in his ear. 

"Was there an equipment malfunction?" Nikita could hear Birkoff ask. 

"Hold on, Birkoff." 

Michael turned around and approached Nikita. He came to a stop in front of her, to shield his actions and her flushed face from Thompson's view. He reached out and plucked Nikita's com-unit from her ear; Michael very quickly teased a wire loose while it was en route to his own ear. 

************ 

Michael shifted so that his lean silhouette faced Nikita. He tested the com-unit in plain sight of Thompson, whose mouth was still gaping over Michael's disheveled appearance. 

"Birkoff, you do copy?" Michael replaced Nikita's unit with his own. "Birkoff?" 

"I'm reading you, Michael." 

"Equipment failure. A wire must have worked loose during Nikita's last sweep of the room," Michael said quietly. Water continued to drip from his hair, rolling down his nose and chest. 

Nikita stomped into the bathroom and threw him a towel. Michael caught it with one hand. 

"Operations is pissed. He wants to talk to you, _now_ ," Birkoff warned. 

"Concerning?" 

"The level one collateral. That's all I know." 

"Stand by," Michael said. 

"What? What am I supposed to tell Operations?" 

"I'm dripping on the carpet, Birkoff." 

"Oh. _Oh_. Ah..." The computer genius was at a loss for words. Had it been anyone else, he might have cracked a joke about how to properly use a condom, or something along those lines. _That_ was definitely out. Birkoff couldn't restrain the chuckle that erupted from the thought of giving _Michael_ advice on prophylactics. 

"Don't say that too loud, Michael. I've got a lot of female sysops on duty right now and I don't need them overloading the system with requests for the real-time surveillance," Birkoff finally said with droll sarcasm. 

To his surprise, Michael gave a slight, answering laugh. "Stand by." Birkoff rarely indulged in banter with Michael on an open channel. Michael's off-kilter brand of humor had always amused him, but Birkoff knew well enough to keep the fact that Michael even _had_ a sense of humor under wraps. Hearing Michael and Birkoff exchange witticisms had unsettled many a Cold Op when Birkoff first came to Section. Apparently, Michael's reputation as a cold-hearted bastard didn't jibe well with the Team Leader's uncanny ability to craft really _bad_ puns. 

Nikita averted her eyes when Michael ran the towel efficiently over his chest and back. He paused to take the com-unit from his ear, then vainly attempted to towel dry his hair. Without looking, he threw the damp towel back at Nikita and ran taming fingers through his softly curling hair. 

Before placing the unit back in his ear, Michael pinned Thompson with a stony glare. "Where's the collateral?" 

"They're still eating lunch," Thompson replied immediately. 

"Who's with them now?" 

"Lee and Krebbs." 

Michael nodded Thompson's dismissal and activated his com-unit. "Ready, Birkoff." 

************ 

"Why the delay, Michael?" Operations said; his irritation was palpable. A smile ghosted Michael's face. He knew, to the exact detail, what expression resided on his superior's face. 

"I was in the shower." 

There was a faint thrum of silence on the other end. Clearly, Operations had trouble with such a mundane concept. More times than Michael could count, the older man seemed almost taken aback to discover that Michael was still human, that he was not a robot to be hauled out of the closet when a profile called for him. 

"There's a charity ball tomorrow night that Jeffrey was scheduled to attend. We received new Intel that Jose Fernandez will be there," Operations forged on gruffly. 

"He took out the original contract on Pfizer's life," Michael stated. 

"Yes. I want you to engage Mr. Fernandez in _negociations_. Persuade him to forget about Jeffrey's indiscretions." 

In simpler terms, Operations wanted him to _fix it_ , Michael thought. To fix it so that Operations wouldn't have to explain to an old friend why he had let his son die. 

"Understood," Michael said. 

"The profile is being downloaded to your PDA. That will be all." 

Michael gathered his PDA from the table and began skimming the profile. The charity ball was a very formal occasion, and it appeared that security would be tight. The guest list was a conglomeration of old money, nouveau riche, high-ranking government officials and the glitz of Hollywood. 

It also appeared that a vital part of their cover would need to be supplied. Madeline was too busy interrogating Fernandez's associates to take care of a tiny, but nevertheless important, detail. 

Michael handed Nikita the PDA and allowed her to read it for a few minutes. "Do you have a suitable gown?" 

Nikita shook her head and continued to read. 

"We need to go shopping," Michael said. Nikita's head jerked up, and he saw the laughter bubbling in her eyes. Michael's mouth twitched. He had never expected to say those words to Nikita, either. 

************ 

Nikita gave Michael a sidelong glance as they entered the brightly lit mall. He was actually there, in his standard Section black, walking beside her. 

The devastating normalcy of what they were doing disturbed Nikita on a fundamental level. 

In fact, Nikita thought, she had never done these so-called _normal_ things until she had been recruited into Section One. Simple things like grocery shopping, sitting in a coffee shop, or _going to the mall_ had not been part of her life on the street. Until her relationship with Gray Wellman, Nikita had never been on what would be called a _normal_ date. 

The irony of it all was not lost on her. 

Nikita had danced with Michael; she had sparred with him, physically and verbally; she had pulled a gun on him and he her; she had _played house_ with him. But the only non-mission related, _normal_ thing Nikita and her sometime-lover had ever done together was sip coffee. 

And now they were shopping. Together. In a mall. 

Although it was mission-related, it lacked that palpable edge that permeated all the other occasions. Michael _was_ still in real-time contact with Section. They were shopping for the appropriate clothes for a charity ball, in which Michael hoped to obtain closure for their current mission. 

But, still... 

Michael was walking beside her in what Nikita thought of as his "office clothes", looking sleek and dangerous. He was holding her hand with his warm grip, lightly stroking of one thumb over her flesh.. The mission called for them to act as a newlywed couple, but whatever the profile, Nikita _meant_ it. And so did Michael. Perhaps that was why Madeline paired them; they were a believable couple because situations like these allowed Michael and Nikita to act out their fantasies of a _normal_ life. 

"Where are we going?" Nikita asked, deciding to halt the mental acrobatics. 

Michael slowed to a stop and bestowed her with a sweet smile. "I don't know the layout of the mall, Nikita," he chided. He brought her captive hand to his mouth, gently branding her skin with a brush of his lips and a slight flick of his tongue. 

************ 

Weak-kneed by Michael's kiss and the brief mental image of him exhaustively profiling a trip to the mall, Nikita started giggling. Michael's supporting arms wrapped around her as she fell forward, nose buried in his shirt and hands clutching at the lapels of his black jacket. 

Whether they were aware of it or not, Nikita and Michael looked the part of a perfect couple to the shoppers who passed by; their appearance of happiness brought a soft smile to one very pregnant woman's face. 

"What's our P.O.S.?" Nikita choked out, freeing one hand to wipe the wetness from the corner of her eye. _That_ caused Michael's shoulders to shake with silent laughter. He lowered his forehead onto her shoulder, hugging her about the hips. 

"If we can't find you a dress, we'll be canceled," was Michael's muffled reply. 

"From the guest list," Nikita tacked on hurriedly. The pressure of her hand at his nape brought Michael's head up. The same very pregnant woman had finally waddled within comfortable speaking distance, and she was beaming at them. 

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but how long have you two been married?" she said in a soft contralto. Nikita's eyes went to the ring on her left finger. She had worn it so many times with Michael on past missions, it seemed almost an extension of herself. 

"Only a few weeks," Michael said, allowing his accent to thicken. 

Nikita spared Michael a swift, emotion-filled look before turning to the woman: 

"But we've been together for about four years." 

"Oui." 

Nikita gave Michael a slight, open-palmed rap on the shoulder. _Turn off the charm. She's pregnant,_ her eyes told him. He answered with an innocent stare and wound his fingers through the blonde strands of her hair. 

"Four years?" the woman exclaimed, eyes growing wide. "And you still flirt with each other?" 

Nikita blinked in surprise. She had never really thought about it that way. "Well, yeah." 

"I love my husband, but you two look like you really belong together." She winked and began her slow waddle away. 

Nikita leaned her head against Michael's cheek. "Huh." 

"Let's go," Michael said. They turned and he reclaimed her hand. 

In a conscious and unspoken decision, they both decided not to discuss the woman's words. 

************ 

Nikita wandered through the racks of the extremely exclusive store that had caught her fancy. The cheapest dress so far had the price tag of three thousand dollars. At her questioning look, Michael had replied: "I have Section's credit card." 

Nikita had grinned wickedly; Michael's lips twitched in response. 

The saleswoman had been dogging Nikita's steps since they had entered the store, but Nikita suspected that had more to do with Michael's presence than the chance of a sale. He had given the girl a heart-breaking smile when she had asked if they needed any help. 

"We're just browsing," he had answered. The young woman had experienced a total, knee-knocking meltdown when his French accent reached her ears. Nikita felt pity for her; she knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of his charm. 

She had jumped at Nikita's request for a fitting room, and led her to an airy, private room in the back. 

Michael hung back in the doorway. "Coming, Michael?" Nikita asked, lips curved seductively. His eyes became suffused with a warm green, and he followed her. Behind him, the saleswoman looked like she was ready to faint with jealousy. 

The first dress Nikita tried on was the one. It was a pearl-colored gown of soft silk. The dress was backless, skimming just above the curve of her buttocks; the front fell in soft folds, hugging her in all the right places. Nikita saw Michael's eyes glittering appreciatively in the mirror. 

Instead of halting the process and buying the dress, Nikita insisted that she try on the four other gowns she had brought with her. The next was a royal blue and sequined, but Nikita found it was too big in the bust and not quite long enough. She shrugged out of it and moved on to the next dress while Michael leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Watching her move around in her underwear. 

The final dress was a hideous chiffon creation which Nikita had picked up on a lark because the price tag was disgustingly high. When she wrestled it on, unable to get the zipper all the way up the high back, Nikita actually giggled at her reflection. 

"What do you think, Michael?" 

He uncrossed his arms and pushed himself away from the wall. 

"It's disgraceful. Take it off," he said huskily. Nikita closed her eyes when she felt his hands caress her back through the chiffon. The lowering zipper rasped softly. 

************ 

Michael's mouth traced the path of his fingers as Nikita's dress pooled on the floor. Her eyes closed and her head lolled back. 

"Mmm," she moaned. When Michael's lips left her back, Nikita opened her eyes and kicked the dress into the corner. She made to pick up her clothes. 

"What are you doing?" Michael whispered in her ear, pressing his length against her. 

"Getting dressed," Nikita's voice grew airy on the last syllable. Michael was lightly nuzzling her neck. 

"Why?" He moved his lips to the sensitive dip in her shoulder, hands traveling down her arms to lock around her midsection. She covered his hands with her own to halt his subtle stroking downward. 

"Here?" she gasped at his reflection. 

He met her eyes in the mirror and slowly moved his head. Keeping eye contact, Michael delicately licked her earlobe and pulled it between his teeth. 

Nikita's brain fogged. She had one last, coherent thought: every time I think Michael has done the most erotic act I will ever see, he goes and improves on it. 

"Take your shirt off," Nikita ordered quietly. Michael held eye contact while shedding his jacket, breaking it only during the brief seconds where his face was obscured by the dark fabric. She could see in the mirror that his hair was mussed and started to turn around to smooth it. 

"No," Michael said, preventing her from shifting position with his strong hands. "Like this." 

Nikita stared into his eyes as he ran the backs of his fingers along one cheek. Nikita reached up and took his hand, slipping his thumb into her mouth. She saw his lips part; her hair fluttered from his warm exhalation as her tongue swirled and teeth scraped against his calluses. With a gentle pull, he removed his from her grasp and rubbed his dampened thumb over her hardening nipple. 

Her eyes fluttered shut at his feather-light touch. He bit her on the neck and caressed the spot with his tongue at her gasp. 

"Keep your eyes open, Ni-ki-ta. No matter what." 

Before Nikita could pry open her eyes, she felt Michael's body slide down hers. When she looked again, she stood nude in front of Michael. The wild hunger etched across his face sent a fierce tremor of hot desire through her blood. 

She reached her arms behind her back and unclasped Michael's belt. "Take them off." Her voice was rough, made more sensual by passion. 

Still staring into her eyes, she felt his hands unbutton his pants behind her. Michael stepped out of the black fabric and molded his body to her back. 

************ 

Michael's hand traveled down her body, past her throat, breasts, navel. He slipped two fingers between her folds and brushed lightly at her sensitized flesh. The other hand was caressing the undersides of her breasts. Nikita's hands fluttered; she didn't know where to put them. She lifted one arm to tangle in Michael's hair and the other covered his hand at her breasts. 

Nikita clenched tightly at Michael's hair as he slipped two fingers inside her. As he stroked her inner walls, her hips bucked against his hand. 

This time, she kept her feverish gaze locked on his. Her hips bucked again as his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Impatience was written over her flushed face. He raised his left hand and threaded his fingers through her hair. He rubbed the moisture from her arousal over the other peak of her breast. 

Guided by the gentle pressure of his upper body, Nikita leaned forward and placed her hands on either side of the mirror. His left hand and arm covered hers. His right, he wrapped securely around her narrow waist. 

"My heaven is in front of me," he whispered to her reflection. And then he was in her. 

She gasped as he filled her to the hilt; Nikita could see him visibly restrain himself and wait for her to adjust to the position. Slowly, he began stroking into her, pulling out almost all the way and rotating his hips. Eventually, Nikita's need for more of him made her impatient. She matched his thrusts and squeezed with her inner muscles to keep him inside longer. 

Michael responded by deepening his stroke, growing even harder inside her from the friction. 

And still their eyes were locked. 

Michael thrust faster and harder, moving the hand from her waist to her clit; he circled it with the rough pad of his thumb. Once. Twice. 

The combined sensations drove Nikita over the edge. Her eyelids fluttered, but remained open. Her pupils dilated, pulse roared; all sound turned into a low buzz in her ears. But when she saw Michael, felt his frenzied final stroke in her, _saw_ his half-lidded eyes and open, panting mouth, it pushed her into a higher sensory plane. 

Every inch of her skin tingled; her skin burned where it touched his. The blood in her veins turned to liquid fire. Nikita spiraled up, forgetting how to stand, how to breathe, knowing that Michael spiraled with her. 

************ 

Nikita moved in a daze. Her senses were dulled and her mind commanded her body sluggishly. She felt the same light-headed weakness as when she had bummed smokes on an empty stomach during her earlier years. The same feebleness as when the doctors in med lab gave her industrial strength painkillers after a long, sleepless mission and then expected her to be able to walk under her own power. 

Or when Michael decided to make violent, intense love to her. 

Nikita glanced in the mirror and saw Michael shrugging on his jacket. His eyes met hers, and Nikita watched as he walked to join her. His slow, smooth forward motion of bone and muscle had the power to flutter her pulse. 

He molded himself to her back again. Nikita pulled his arms around her body so he could hold her up, keep her steady. 

"Ready, Ni-ki-ta?" he said to her reflection, rubbing his cheek against hers. 

Nikita saw him, saw _them_ , in the mirror and wondered anew at who this couple was that fit perfectly together, devoid of inhibition. 

"Yeah," she whispered back, incapable of expressing what it was she felt at that moment in such a limited format as _words_. 

A knock fell lightly on the fitting room door. Michael and Nikita turned their heads as one, without breaking any physical contact, as the saleswoman stuck her head through the door. 

Her face flushed at the tableau they presented, securely enfolded into one whole. The high color on her cheeks deepened as she took in Nikita's glassy eyes and the musky scent that permeated the room. 

"Uh, have you found a-anything that you like?" the woman stuttered, bracing herself in the doorway. 

Nikita arched her neck to look at Michael's face. "The pearl-colored one, right Michael?" Nikita's voice was hoarse and thready. 

His eyes searched her face hungrily. "Oui. You have a halo when you wear it." An ineffably sweet smile broke over Nikita's face. 

The saleswoman blinked rapidly and cleared her throat. The sensual heat pouring off the couple was sending her pulse raging. To keep herself from fainting dead away, the saleswoman moved into the room and gathered up the pearl-colored dress. 

"I'll take it up to the register. What about accessories?" 

Nikita modeled the shoes in front of the mirror, pulling up her slacks to view the straps at her ankles. She swung around to look for Michael's approval. He sat in one of the chairs with a pair of silk gloves slung over one shoulder. 

"What do you think, honey?" Nikita teased, approaching him. She reveled in the jealous looks the other women were casting her way. Of all the other husbands in the boutique holding their wives' hand bags, only Michael was attentive and far from tame. He was entirely focused on her, and she him. 

"Perfection." His accent caressed the syllables. He stood up and motioned for her to take his seat. Michael knelt down and began unwinding the straps from her ankles. Nikita clenched her hands on the armrests of the chair; the soft pads of his fingers were doing devastating things to the insides of her ankles and the bottoms of her feet. With one last caress, he moved to the other foot. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Nikita brushed her fingers through the rough-silk texture of his hair. 

Michael gently fitted her pumps back on her feet and rose in one fluid motion. He held out his hand. "Done?" 

Nikita grasped his hand and pulled herself up, linking her arm with his. "No. I need jewelry." 

************ 

"Is Monsieur _certain_ he would like this piece?" The sales clerk at the jewelry store was a stuffy, older man. He dipped one hand into his waistcoat and examined the credit card that Michael had handed him. 

"Yes." Michael's answer was unequivocal. He leaned against the glass counter and brushed an imaginary fluff of lint from his Gaultier suit. Nikita stood, grinning, behind him. When the clerk waffled, she propped her chin on Michael's shoulder. 

"Is he worried about our credit limit, sweetie?" she asked Michael brightly. 

"Hush, Nikita," Michael told her, stopping a reply by tugging her lower lip between his teeth. 

"A-hem," the sales clerk cleared his throat. Michael broke the kiss and licked his lips, before turning his stare back to the clerk. 

"Yes?" 

The clerk appeared slightly offended by Michael's brusque tone. "Is Monsieur _certain_ -" 

"Do it," Michael interrupted. He hadn't shifted his position, but his bemused air had dissipated into a tangible choler, crackling through the intervening space by way of Michael's quicksilver eyes. 

The sales clerk cleared his throat and began ringing up the order, delicately folding the string of pearls into a velvet box. He punched the numbers into the computer. Nikita could tell when the information regarding the credit limit appeared on the screen; his eyes widened, bulged, and finally blinked. At the sight of all those zeros, an unctuous manner slithered over him like a second skin. 

Michael signed the receipt dispassionately. 

"I am terribly sorry about all the trouble. I _do_ hope you will continue to shop here in the future," he said. 

Michael gathered up the bag. "I'm sure we won't." 

************ 

Right after the confrontation in the jewelry store, Nikita realized that they were passing a Baskin Robbins. Her stomach growled audibly at the thought of ice cream. She and Michael had skipped dinner to complete their shopping before the mall closed. 

Ever observant, Michael swung around and pressed the back of his hand against her rumbling tummy. 

She flicked her eyes to the menu. Michael followed her gaze. "Buy me an ice cream cone?" she asked, opening her eyes saucer-wide and pouting innocently. 

He nodded, a smile ghosting his face as he led her to the nearly empty counter. 

"Can I help you?" 

"Two scoops of Triple Chocolate Fudge on a sugar cone, please," Nikita ordered. Her cheeks flushed with anticipation; due to her unhappy childhood, ice cream was always a special treat. "What about you, Michael?" 

He kneaded her neck from behind with his fingers. "I'm fine." 

When the cashier quoted her a price, Nikita reached around and dug into the front of Michael's pants for change. Nikita gave him a quick kiss on the nose at his heated gaze and turned back to the very flustered girl in an apron. 

Nikita lapped at the ice cream the moment the cashier handed it to her, nearly dripping melted ice cream on her blouse when she received her change. Michael started to lead her away, but found Nikita lacked the coordination to eat and walk simultaneously. Feeling Michael stare at her for a few minutes while she devoured the ice cream, she thrust the cone under his nose. "Try some." 

His amused gaze met hers and held contact as he leaned forward and darted his tongue into the thick, chocolate concoction. There was a dab of chocolate at the corner of his mouth when he pulled back. Nikita held the cone to one side and leaned forward to flick her tongue lightly at the spot. 

Michael tilted his head and ran his tongue along the rim of her lips, capturing her mouth at her involuntary gasp. His lips were cool and sleek on hers, tasting faintly of chocolate. 

Suddenly, Nikita jerked back. "Oh, damn!" 

Melted chocolate ran from the cone and down her hand, where it was slowly dripping to the floor. 

************ 

Nikita transferred the cone to her other hand and looked helplessly at Michael. Rather than returning to the counter and taking a handful of napkins, Michael lifted her wrist to his mouth. With the complacent delicacy of a jungle cat, he began lapping at the chocolate rivulets that ran along her hand and wrist. 

Nikita stepped forward and leaned against Michael for support, bumping her elbow on the packages she had thrust into his arms; his hot tongue tingled the sensitive skin on her inner wrists, causing her pulse to thrum pleasurably in her ears. 

Whether it was a conscious decision, Michael's distracting mouth kept Nikita from finishing the cone. When he released her right hand, chocolate had overflowed onto the other one. He raised an eyebrow. 

"Oops?" Nikita shrugged, a half-smile tugging her cheek. Michael guided the cone in her sticky hand to her mouth. 

"Eat." 

Nikita crunched obligingly at the leaking sugar cone, almost choking when Michael tilted his head to lick the chocolate drippings from her hand again. When her knees trembled, Michael pulled her hips to his with his free hand. His fingers drew lazy circles on her lower back. 

Nikita crunched at the cone faster, determined that Michael's mouth soon be occupied somewhere else. The last bite disappeared into her mouth and Nikita was one breath away from tasting Michael's lips. 

"Excuse me." 

Nikita ignored the imperious voice and fluttered a breathy, half-kiss over Michael's warm lips. 

" _Excuse_ me," the voice continued again. "This is _so_ disgusting." 

Nikita wrenched her mouth from Michael's and turned towards the speaker. Then she looked down. The arrogant voice belonged to a teenage girl, short, with braided hair and multiple piercings. Another girl with cropped, green-dyed hair tugged on her arm, attempting to pull her away. 

"Come _on_ , Sam. Let's go." 

Sam wrenched her elbow out of her friend's grasp and crossed her arms protectively over her chest. "This is a public place," she snapped. 

Nikita hazarded a glance at Michael's face. He had adopted the same wickedly amused look as when he had shown up at her apartment the one time Nikita had turned off her cellular. She had only wanted one uninterrupted hour with her boyfriend, Gray. Michael had knocked on her door and introduced himself as her cousin, an art dealer. His easy manner and wild claims that Nikita "talked about Gray all the time" had been the one incontrovertible piece of evidence, Nikita decided, that Michael _definitely_ had retained possession of a sense of humor. 

Nikita wrenched her gaze from Michael's arresting visage and gave the girl a once over. "Your point being?" 

************ 

"There are _children_ here," the girl responded. She looked as though she might stamp her foot in frustration. 

Nikita's eyes narrowed when Michael began nuzzling her earlobe. "Children like you?" she challenged quietly. 

Sam huffed in reaction to the insult and lifted her chin. "There's a time and place for that," she waved her hand at them disgustedly, "kind of thing. Get a room." 

Oh, but they had a room, Nikita thought. With a mirror. And a _shower_. The absence of Michael's warmth pressed to her body yanked Nikita's mind from that errant train of thought. Nikita barely registered the packages settling at her feet. 

She saw the change come over him, the subtle rippling of facial muscles that signaled that Michael had turned _on_ his raw sensuality like throwing a switch. Nikita knew the difference, now, between _that_ Michael and _her_ Michael. She knew that when Michael was with her, all training and pretense were stripped away. His ardent glances and impassioned kisses stemmed from real emotion, real attraction. Together, they were _kinetic_. 

That realization didn't help Nikita any when Michael advanced on the girl, intent on his prey. It didn't help any when the girl froze, a small animal mesmerized by the panther's gaze. Nikita was jealous that his warmth was gone, his face out of reach, his attentions diverted from her for one second. 

Nikita wasn't jealous of the girl. She had learned better. 

Michael halted only inches away, invading the girl's personal space with his body and his projected magnetism. His eyes searched her face, pausing briefly at her trembling lips. 

"Is your name Samantha?" His soft voice rippled through the air, imbuing the syllables of her name with a sensual foreignness. 

Bereft of speech, the girl nodded jerkily. Her green-haired friend gasped. 

Michael reached out and gently pulled one hand free from her tightly clenched arms. He ran the fingers of his other hand over her palm. "Forgive me, petite. When it comes to my 'Kita, I can't control myself." 

Nikita's pulse soared at his voice, at his admission. Her heart stuttered as Michael turned the girl's palm over and brushed her knuckles with a kiss. The skin of her hand tingled at the tactile memory. Michael gently lowered the stunned girl's hand and backed away. 

************ 

Nikita stepped through the door that Michael held open for her; the plastic garment bag, hooked on one finger, trailed over one finger. 

"Michael." 

"I see it." 

Moments later, she found him settling his jacket securely around her shoulders. Nikita hitched her neck around, intending to give him an amused grin. She was a _Cold Op_ , not a shrinking violet. "Michael..." 

His fingertips brushed against her lips, face half-illuminated by the mall's fluorescent lights. "Let me," he pleaded, silently willing her to let him _pretend_. 

Unwilling to break the spell, Nikita whispered, "Do we run for it?" 

Michael hefted the bags in his hand and gave an evaluating glance out the doors. When his eyes slid back to her face, his lips twitched playfully. "Race you." 

They darted into the dark, heavy rain drops splattering on their hair and cheeks. Nikita giggled as she pushed Michael to the side, taking the lead with the garment bag a plume of plastic behind her. 

Michael tapped her on the shoulder as he ran past, instantly regaining his balance from her playful shove. He was at the side door of the black van several seconds ahead of her, unlocking it and setting the shopping bags inside. He held out his hand for her dress. Nikita gave it to him and watched in surprise as he tossed the bag into the back and pulled the door shut. Michael rested his back against the black mission van and crossed his arms in front of him. 

Rain pelted down between them. Nikita shivered from the cool rain and the after effects of the ice cream. " _Michael_ ," she protested, a quaver creeping into her voice from the chill. He reached forward and pulled Nikita's shivering body snug against his hips. 

The faint protestations of damp cloth rubbing at damp cloth were overwhelmed by Michael's distorted moan. "Ni-ki-ta." Her shivering body and their wet clothes were creating an intense friction, hardening him. The first spark of heat bloomed low in Nikita's belly, raging to life when Michael slanted his lips over her mouth. 

His lips were cool and slick. Michael's tongue, slipping past her lips to tangle with hers, was scalding and insistent. 

Surfacing, breathless from the kiss, Nikita's fingertips burned and she wondered at it. Her fingers were touching Michael's chest, scorched through the sodden fabric. 

Michael fastened his lips to her neck and fumbled for the door of the van. Nikita lent a hand and they wrenched the door open, tumbling inside. 

************ 

Michael pulled himself back into the van with his elbows. Nikita followed him in on her hands and knees, lips locked with his. When their feet cleared the door, Michael maneuvered himself to his knees, nibbling at Nikita's throat. She felt his muscles flex as he slammed the door shut behind her. 

Nikita clawed at his sodden T-shirt, his jacket falling off her shoulders in her eagerness. She flung the damp cloth into a corner and ran her palms down his smooth, glistening skin. His muscles bunched and Michael pulled her around, lying her flat on the gray carpet in the van. 

He loomed over her, cold droplets of water falling from his hair to land on the heated skin of her face and neck. Michael teased the buttons open on her blouse, gently peeling the silk back from her moist skin. Then he leaned forward, his mouth hovering just above her breastbone, and blew a soft puff of warm air. He continued down her body, their only contact through his heated breath. 

Nikita watched him avidly as he reached the valley between her breasts, darting out his tongue to lap up the drops of water collecting there. Nikita arched her back in pleasure and Michael continued down, nuzzling her abdomen. His mouth ravished her belly button while his dexterous fingers removed her belt. He dragged his fingers down the sides of her legs as he peeled her slacks and panties from her writhing body, pulling off her shoes. 

He shook his head as he prowled back up her body, scattering another wash of cold droplets over her naked thighs and abdomen. Nikita hissed with pleasure and propped herself up on her elbows. 

She met Michael's eyes and watched a slow smile spread over his face at the need that must have been written on her every clenched muscle. His hands slid under her thighs, pulling them apart and resting their backs on his warm shoulders. Michael rubbed his stubbled cheek teasingly against her inner thigh, biting the tender skin when she squeezed his neck. 

Nikita's thighs squeezed again in violent reaction to the first questing pass of his tongue over the engorged flesh of her inner folds. His hot tongue probed again; the chill water dripped from his hair, onto her thighs and the apex Michael lovingly explored. The jumble of sensations took Nikita's breath away. When Michael penetrated her with his tongue, black spots edged her vision and Nikita clutched at air. 

His hands held her bucking hips firmly in place, fingers hypnotically brushing the tender, ticklish skin at her waist. Michael's tongue stroked into her firmly, bringing his thumb to stroke a counterpoint against Nikita's clit. 

Nikita heard herself breathing raggedly as the pressure built quickly in her groin. She threaded her fingers through Michael's wet hair to pull his mouth closer to her pleasure. 

Nikita arched her back in ecstasy as her orgasm flowed through her, every muscle taut. Michael's lips were fastened around her tiny nub, the suction sending a firestorm rippling out from the source. 

Nikita's mouth opened but no sound came out, thighs tightly squeezed around Michael's neck as she gasped in air in rapid-fire breaths. 

************ 

When Nikita could pry open her eyes, she saw Michael waiting patiently. Saw his need to ravage sublimated to his stronger desire to please her. His animal want was etched every hard plane of his face and flickered in the green hue of his eyes. 

Nikita was infused by the need to reciprocate his domination, the need to control his passion for him. The need to dole out his pleasure and to make him _burn_. 

Nikita reversed their positions, crawling up to straddle the straining bulge in Michael's pants She extricated herself from her soaked blouse and swatted Michael's hands away when they caressed upwards. 

"You don't move unless I tell you," she purred. Something sparked in Michael's eyes as he rolled back into a submissive position. 

"Am I under orders to please you?" 

Nikita reared her head back, clenching her thighs over Michael's. That's a lingering demon, she thought, that will be exorcised _right now_. She unclasped her bra and deliberately shrugged the straps down her arms. The scrap of lace settled on Michael's chest. Then Nikita lunged forward, her lips hovering above his sensual mouth. Her hair formed a damp curtain around their faces. 

"Yes," she answered huskily. "You are." She felt his breath catch. 

"Good," he murmured. 

Encouraged by his reply, Nikita reached out her hands and captured his wrists above his head. She dipped her neck down and dragged her hair across his chest, leaving damp trails of water in its wake. Nikita flipped her hair back over her shoulders with a jerk of her neck and leaned back down to clean the water with her lips and the tip of her tongue. 

When her searching mouth brushed over his flat nipple, once, twice, she felt his muscles clench and release beneath her. Nikita's mouth fastened on the sensitive nub and she heard a ragged sigh escape his lips. 

Then she moved again, down his body, mimicking his earlier actions. Nikita could feel Michael's body quiver when she darted her tongue into his navel, biting at the soft skin just above his belt. 

She began to feel an answering throb when she realized the amount of control he was exerting upon his powerful body: a powerful body that, for the moment, was all _hers_. 

************ 

Nikita saw Michael gliding across the room in his tuxedo, with two glasses of champagne in his hands. She suppressed a smile as he ignored the various come-hither stares and blatant attempts to lure him into conversation. Michael was sleek and unapproachable; the man-eaters in the ritzy crowd were fairly champing at the bit to get his attention. 

Nikita had threatened him before he left her side. "Michael, if you leave me here with Krissy and Pfizer for more than five minutes, I swear I'll tell everyone in Section that you read poetry." 

It had been an empty vow, but Nikita's face had warmed at the knowing gleam in his eye. He had bent to ostensibly communicate over the loud chatter; instead, he had traced the outline of her non-linked ear with his tongue and whispered some unintelligible French phrase. 

Nikita couldn't translate it, but she _understood_ it. He had used the same phrase back in the mission van-- 

_Oh, God_ , Nikita thought. Of all the places. 

Nikita had told Michael he couldn't move, but she hadn't barred Michael from speaking. His soft, fluid voice had taunted her, teased her. Inflamed her. 

_"Am I under orders to please you?" he had asked._ His pleasure at her spoken, "yes," had finally driven out one of her and Michael's past demons. After receiving such intense pleasure from Michael, both physically and spiritually, Nikita had wanted to dominate him. She had done so, momentarily. Then Michael began to speak, and his words caressed her as intimately as his now captive hands had done only moments earlier. In the jumble of English and French, along with a scattering of phrases in languages Nikita could barely recognize, she heard desire. She heard beauty. Nikita heard love. 

"Don't you think so?" 

Nikita registered that Krissy's high voice had been sounding in her ears for several minutes. Nikita's eyebrows knitted together and she turned her attention to the stylish blonde woman, studiously ignoring the persistent ache in her groin. 

"Excuse me, Krissy. What were you saying?" Nikita prompted. 

Pfizer snorted loudly and downed the rest of his champagne. "Blondes! They're all alike!" 

Michael materialized at her side, pressing the cool champagne glass into her hand. "Target sighted, Birkoff." Nikita took a delicate sip of the liquid, slanting her eyes at Michael's face. He nodded to her. "Moving to intercept." 

************ 

Michael danced her past Jose Fernandez, and Nikita grimly sublimated her emotions to flirt with the target. He was a dark, compact man. Not unhandsome. He looked younger than his age. 

Vanity, Nikita thought grimly, always brings the powerful down to a level of vulnerability. Why Fernandez could _possibly_ think she would be interested when she was dancing in _Michael's_ arms, Nikita could not fathom. 

Maybe she could. Seduction and the manipulation of desire were both remarkably successful techniques. If it were Michael giving her a heated gaze while dancing with another woman, Nikita knew she would follow him to the ends of the earth at a whispered suggestion. 

Perhaps she was no different from Jose Fernandez, in that respect. Then again, maybe it was just Michael. 

Nikita stepped gracefully away from Michael as the song ended, feeling her skin tingle where his hands had been. She ignored the anguished cries of her body and heart as Michael swept another woman onto the dance floor. Nikita drew in a steadying breath, hoping selfishly that he was feeling the same. 

Jose Fernandez had spotted her, standing alone near the bar. Nikita knew he was making his way over to her without looking, and without asking Birkoff under her breath. 

"What's a beautiful woman like you doing alone?" a softly accented voice murmured in her ear. Nikita allowed a lushly seductive smile to curve her lips and turned to face the target. 

"I'm not alone, now," she purred. Her training stopped her from tracking Michael across the room as he danced with a petite Asian woman. In fact, Nikita forced herself to block Michael out completely as she leisurely invited Fernandez to _explore_ a back room. 

It didn't take her very long to convince him. Nikita couldn't decide whether to feel pride in her work, or wonder if she had played it too easy. Seduction was old hat for her, but it was extremely stupid to get complacent about it. 

From the expectant gleam in the target's eye and his roving hands as she led him out into the dark recesses of the mansion, she knew her deception had been undetected. Nikita's wariness dispersed into a cloud of satisfaction when black-clad operatives thrust a thrashing Fernandez into a chair. Nikita moved to a corner to observe. 

They were strapping him in as Michael walked through the door. Although he was resplendent in his tuxedo, Michael's demeanor was arctic. He held up two fingers and motioned down the hall. Two operatives broke away from the shadows and moved into position. 

"What it this all about?" Fernandez asked laconically. Michael unbuttoned his jacket with one hand and slipped his hands into his pockets. The action revealed Michael's holster and the gleaming gun nestled under his arm. Michael paced behind Fernandez, who twisted his neck around in an attempt to keep Michael in his line of sight. "Who are you?" 

Michael still didn't answer. 

"DEA? FBI?" 

Michael walked back in front of Fernandez and clasped his hands loosely. 

"Don't tell me you are a Spook," Jose Fernandez continued, his mouth twisted into an arrogant grin. Michael gave him a glacial smile that didn't touch his eyes; somehow, the smile was more frightening than his enigmatic silence or his blank stare. Fernandez's grin slipped from his face and his leg developed a nervous jig. 

"What do you want?" he demanded, near hysteria, accent sharply pronounced. 

"We have your colleagues. Antonio Gutierrez and James Petersen. They've been veryï¿½forthcoming," Michael said quietly. 

The skin on the target's face sallowed. "What is this?" 

"We can crush your operation within hours," Michael said. "We know your major contacts, distributors, and buyers." 

"What do you want from me?" This time, the question was an imploring whisper. 

Michael moved forward until he loomed over the target and he was forced to crane his neck to continue looking at his captor. "You have taken a contract out on Jeffrey Pfizer's life. We don't appreciate that." 

************ 

Nikita's footsteps echoed through the stark hallway in Section. Michael had called twenty minutes prior and whispered, "Josephine." His voice reminded her of the last time she had seen him, more than a week ago. 

The look of shock on Pfizer's face had been priceless. Michael had waltzed up to him, Nikita clinging to his arm, and had actually been _pleasant_. 

"We'll need to wait for confirmation, but I believe your problem has been resolved satisfactorily," Michael had said. Nikita chuckled at his diplomatic language. 

"Yeah, you _resolved him satisfactorily_ , all right," she commented dryly. 

"Ni-ki-ta," he warned. His warm palm slid over her hand on his arm. 

But the champagne and the idea of finally getting away from the Pfizers made her bold. "He _wet his pants_ , Michael." 

Pfizer's eyes had gone very round. "He w-what? Who?" 

"The man who wanted to kill you. He pissed himself. Michael can be very intimidating, you know," Nikita drawled on recklessly. Michael dropped her arm and slid his hand around her waist, pulling her tightly to his side. 

Michael dipped his head to her un-linked ear. "Hush, Ni-ki-ta." His lips brushed against her earlobe. 

One didn't refuse an order like that, Nikita thought, and promptly became the docile wife of the profile. Pfizer still hadn't lost the poleaxed look when Birkoff called them in. 

Nikita finally reached Walter's counter. He was rummaging around behind the gate. "Walter! Do you know what mission's on the pad?" 

Nikita had learned from Michael that it was always better to be prepared, especially after a week's down time. 

"Hey, sugar," he greeted, shoving up the gate and joining her at his counter. "Nothing's being sent up. I've only got the weapon's manifest for the Kue mission, and that left egress hours ago." 

Ah, that explained the noise coming from Michael's end, Nikita thought suddenly. She knew the Kue mission was his. 

"Then why-" she spoke aloud, halting when Walter gave her a conspiratorial look. "I wanted to show you this juiced up _nine_ millimeter. I've already had _Michael_ field test it." 

Walter extended the gun to her, and Nikita went through the motions of examining it. Nine? Michael? 

Could Michael, in his oblique way, be attempting to communicate with her? 

"I think Birkoff wanted to see you," Walter said, gathering up the nine-millimeter and moving it underneath the counter-top. Nikita stood slowly and threw him a curious glance. 

"Thanks, Walter." 

"Hi, Nikita," Birkoff said absentmindedly when she ambled to his console. 

"You wanted to see me?" she prompted, caging the computer genius with her arms. 

He swiveled his chair around. "Have you been to _Volare's_ recently?" 

"Not really," she said. "Why?" 

"I was asking Michael about clubs and he suggested it. I just wanted to know what you thought," Birkoff rambled, catching Nikita's eye as she stepped away. He getting better at this deception thing, Nikita thought. He's certainly better than Walter. 

"I liked it. You should get out, have some fun," she suggested, edging away. It was already five, and Nikita had just decided she needed to get a new dress. 

"See you later, Nikita," Birkoff called to her retreating back, letting her know she was officially "not needed". 

************ 

It was a quarter after nine and Nikita sipped anxiously at her champagne. She was perched on a bar stool in Volare's, wearing a slinky blue dress with outrageously high slits up each thigh. She toyed with the wedding ring on her finger. She'd forgotten to take it off after debriefing. Madeline, it seemed, had also overlooked it. 

Nikita bit her lip as possibilities for Michael's absence crowded into her brain. Maybe something had gone wrong on the mission. Or he was delayed in debrief. Maybe he changed his mind. 

No. He wouldn't have gone to all the trouble if he didn't intend to go through with it. Michael was nothing, if not _thorough_. 

Nikita fought the image of a bloody Michael from her mind. She wouldn't, _couldn't_ , dwell on that. If her imagination played out all the horrible things that _could_ be happening to Michael at any given moment, she'd be throwing up in the bathroom in no time. 

No. She wouldn't doubt him, yet. Michael had made an effort, through the push and pull of daily life at Section. He'd nudged aside the politics and maneuvering for the moment to be with her. Patience was something Nikita was finally learning. 

Nikita fidgeted and took another sip of her drink. She knew the instant Michael entered the building. 

There was an electric charge in the air. The couple next to her chatted on as if nothing had happened, but Nikita's back straightened. She smoothed her hair. Crossed her legs, letting the slit ride dangerously high. When she knew Michael was near, Nikita turned. 

He was walking towards her, wearing black. Leather pants, leather jacket, T-shirt. He was carrying his motorcycle helmet under one arm and a small valise in the other. His hair was slightly mussed, and Nikita knew that he must have come straight from debrief. 

Dangerous beauty, Nikita thought idly, resting her head on one palm. 

Nikita would have sworn she heard a snapping sound when their eyes connected across the room. Unnoticed, a man headed back to his seat after seeing who the tall blonde was eyeing. 

"Hi," he said. He lowered himself gracefully onto the bar stool next to her. 

Nikita ran her index finger around the edge of her glass. "You're late." 

He smiled for her. "It couldn't be avoided." 

The bartender interrupted them momentarily, getting Michael a scotch, neat. 

"Why are we here, Michael?" Nikita finally asked, allowing her vulnerability to show on her face. 

Michael didn't look away. "I consider myself still under orders," he said carefully. 

_"Am I under orders to please you?"_

_"Yes," she answered huskily. "You are." She felt his breath catch._

_"Good," he murmured._

Nikita felt like her eyebrows must be buried in her hairline. "Still--under orders?" she repeated. Her stomach flip-flopped through an entire gymnastic floor routine. 

Michael ducked his head down in amusement, taking a sip of scotch. Had his hair been longer, it would have fallen endearingly into his face. "Yes." 

Nikita took a deep breath to steady herself. Then she made a decision. The stool squeaked in protest as she pulled it closer to Michael so that their knees touched. "Then let the games begin," she said saucily. Michael actually grinned and reached for the valise as she took another sip. 

"Look." 

Nikita clicked open the locks and cracked the case open. Nestled inside were a pair of neatly folded suede chaps. She snapped the lid shut and downed the rest of her drink in one gulp. 

"You win. Let's go."


End file.
